Chapter 5

Maxwell Tower, top floor.

Julian Maxwell’s office was as vast as a small soccer field.

A wall of floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of half the city’s nightscape.

When I entered, he was on the phone, his back to me, standing by the window.

His tall figure, silhouetted against the glittering city lights, seemed somewhat solitary.

His assistant led me to the sofa area, poured me a glass of water, then quietly exited.

I sat still, not looking at him or surveying the surroundings.

About five minutes later, he finished his call.

Footsteps approached, stopping in front of me.

A faint scent of cedarwood wafted over.

It was his signature cologne.

He didn't sit, just stood, looking down at me.

His gaze was like an X-ray, trying to see right through me.

“Miss Miller.”

He spoke, his voice giving nothing away.

“Mr. Maxwell.”

I looked up, meeting his eyes.

He was strikingly handsome, with a kind of aggressive good looks.

Sharp brows, piercing eyes, a high nose bridge, and thin lips.

They say men with thin lips are heartless.

I never believed it before, but now I did.

“The screenplay for ‘The Cage’ is in your possession.”

He stated it as a fact.

“Yes,” I nodded.

“Ava Hayes gave it to you?”

“You could say that.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, as if judging the truthfulness of my words.

“What’s your relationship with her?”

“Someone she trusted.”

These were the same questions Liam had asked me.

Julian was silent for a few seconds, then sat down on the single armchair opposite me.

His legs crossed, his posture composed.

But the more composed he was, the more I knew he wasn’t calm inside.

“Serena Thorne was also here today,” he said.

“She told me the script Liam Reed has was stolen, that it’s corporate espionage.”

“Of course, she would say that,”

I smiled faintly.

“False accusations are her specialty.”

“What evidence do you have to prove yours is the original version?”

Julian stared at me, asking each word precisely.

“Evidence?”

I took a small USB drive from my bag and placed it on the coffee table.

“Mr. Maxwell, perhaps you should take a look at this first.”

He gestured, and the assistant immediately stepped forward.

He took the USB drive and inserted it into Julian’s desktop computer.

Soon, the projection screen on the wall lit up.

Playing was a video.

The scene was a warmly decorated study.

Ava Hayes—or rather, *I*—was wearing comfortable loungewear, sitting at a desk.

Manuscript paper and a laptop were spread out on the table.

“...Regarding the male lead’s childhood trauma, I feel the previous setup was too simplistic. If we made him witness his mother being domestically abused as a child, wouldn’t it have more impact? That way, his later-life paranoia and insecurity would have a clear origin…”

The video showed me talking to the camera.

It was as if I was discussing the plot with someone, or perhaps just thinking aloud.

This was a habit I had when writing.

I would record my inspirations and ideas on video.

It made it easier to review and organize later.

This video was recorded when I was brainstorming the core concept of ‘The Cage.’

It detailed the male lead’s character backstory.

This specific detail, in the “censored” version of the script Serena had released, was changed to a cliché “divorced parents, lack of love from childhood.”

The difference in quality was instantly undeniable.

The video was short, only a few minutes.

After it finished, the office was utterly silent.

Julian Maxwell’s face had gone beyond mere annoyance.

He looked at the familiar face on the screen, his eyes swirling with complex emotions.

“How much of this do you have?” he asked, his voice a little hoarse.

“Enough to meticulously reconstruct the entire creative journey of the script,” I replied calmly.

This was my trump card.

I never go into battle unprepared.

Serena thought she had stolen a printed manuscript.

She didn’t know how many backups, how many records of the creative process, I had kept.

Each piece of evidence was enough to drag her to hell.

Julian leaned back on the sofa, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

After a long while, he opened his eyes again and looked at me.

“What do you want?”

He was smart.

He knew I hadn’t shown him these things to make him “seek justice” for Ava Hayes.

I was here to negotiate.

“I want the Maxwell Group to invest in Liam Reed,” I said.

“Is that all?”

“Of course not.”

I smiled faintly.

“I want the Maxwell Group to withdraw all investment from Serena Thorne’s version of ‘The Cage.’ And, Mr. Maxwell, I want you to personally attend the launch event for Liam Reed’s version of ‘The Cage.’”

This was my true objective.

I didn't just want Serena's project halted.

I wanted Julian Maxwell, the man at the pinnacle of capital, to personally endorse my screenplay.

I wanted everyone to know who the chosen one was.

This was undoubtedly a direct slap in Serena’s face.

And in the most brutal way possible.

Julian looked at me, his eyes unfathomably deep.

“Miss Miller,”

He suddenly changed the subject.

“The ring on your hand is very unique.”

I instinctively glanced at my right hand.

On my index finger, I wore a very plain silver ring.

The design was simple, with a single letter engraved on the inside.

A ‘Z’.

*Zhao*.

It was my own name.

I had worn it for many years, almost never taking it off.

My heart plummeted.

He… recognized me?